That's Not Quidditch
by grammar conscious possum
Summary: The Slytherin Quidditch team is in desperate need of a tune-up, so Snape calls in an old hand to save the day... but things have changed since Book One! Warning: Contains A Taco Show.


"Aaaaaaand…. _Gryffindor wins_!"

Severus Snape was not having a good day.

It had all seemed so promising earlier. Over the summer, he had made the positive decision to take up the management of the Slytherin Quidditch team. It seemed like a good way to keep to his New Year's Resolutions – to put aside past disappointments and bitternesses, to learn to play the oboe, and to get more fresh air and exercise. (Well, except for the second resolution.)

Upon the arrival of the new school year at Hogwarts, he still felt good about his new choice of extra-curricular activity. The newly revised team seemed sharp as buttons, and the summer jiujuitsu sessions he had had with Madame Hooch had really paid off. Having made the tough decision to sacrifice his old comfy black bat-robes in favour of a new sporty set (which only went as far as his knees and had reflective stripes down the sides), Snape felt fit and focused as he walked on to the pitch for the first match of the season, hair tied back in a neat ponytail. Blowing the whistle for the players to begin, he felt confident of success.

But then it all went wrong. Nothing could have prepared him for the crushing disappointment of seeing his Beaters dropping their clubs, his Chasers crashing headlong into one another, and worst of all, Harry Potter catching the Snitch only twenty-three minutes into the game, while Draco Malfoy was off furiously chasing what turned out to be a large hoverfly.

"What is the matter with you people?!" the newly-appointed coach raged, in the changing room. "No, don't bother, I can tell you what the matter is: not one of you picked up a broom this entire summer! Am I right?" He glared accusingly at each member of the team in turn; all dropped their faces and stared sullenly at the floor.

Frustration bubbled up in Snape's throat. He knew that there was another factor at work; all were suffering severely from the after-effects of a banned substance, the recipe for which surfaced every few decades to wreak havoc at Hogwarts. At two o'clock the previous morning Snape had raided the Slytherin common room and confiscated two half-full cauldrons of Helga's Revenge, the extremely potent cocktail said to have been created by the Hufflepuff herself. At that point, however, it was too late.

"You bunch of self-indulgent slugs!" he shouted. "Don't you layabouts realise we may have lost our chances at the Cup already? And it's only October!"

The players wisely kept their collective gaze on the floor and remained silent, except for Draco, who muttered something.

"What was that?" snapped Snape. "Does our exalted Seeker have something to say, hmm? Perhaps it's another scintillating observation about _insects_?"

Draco mumbled again, this time slightly louder.

"Yes yes, we've all had personal problems before, Malfoy," sneered Snape in reply. "A true professional doesn't let these petty family issues interfere with his game! No…" he mused, turning away from the team and stroking his chin, "this team needs to be licked into shape, and fast. And I think a _true professional_ is exactly the person to do the job…"

"Who?" asked Draco, in puzzlement.

Cynthia Flint placed the final touch of eyeshadow on her model's face, and leaned back to examine her handiwork. A proud tear came unbidden to her eye, and she dropped her face and fumbled in her purse for her black lace handkerchief.

"Oh, darling," she sniffed, and was unable to continue.

"Cool it, Mother," replied her model, head tilted to check that the foundation was perfectly blended. "Jolly good work, I must say. Between you and that gent from Haiti, I doubt any of the old crowd will recognise me. That'll be a good laugh, eh?"

"Dear!" came a call from downstairs.

"What is it, Daddy?"

Morris Flint huffed up the stairs and dropped a sealed roll of parchment onto the dressing table. "Just got an owl from Hogwarts," he replied. "Looks like Severus's handwriting, if you ask me. Wonder what he wants?"

The statuesque blonde stood up from the make-up stool and broke the seal on the parchment. A smile crept over the finely-boned face. "How amusing," came the purr. "I think I've found myself some work experience." Tossing a head of long, silky hair, the blonde laughed, and dropped the parchment carelessly on the dressing table, leaning in to the mirror to adjust a black silk blouse over naturally wide shoulders. "It'll be charming to go back and see dear old Hogwarts again… from a different perspective. Don't you think?"

"Oh, yes, Marcus!"

"_Marcella_," snapped her daughter, and left to pack.


End file.
